


Fever Where You Run To

by sleepypercy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Self-Sacrificing Dean, Sex Pollen, lust-spell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 04:03:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4005184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/pseuds/sleepypercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a fever crawling under John's skin, and the only cure might be found inside his son's body.</p><p>Or, John's hit with a lust-spell, and Dean's willing to do anything for his dad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever Where You Run To

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexa_dean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_dean/gifts).



> This is meant to be dub-con (basically, Dean consents but only to save his father), but borders into vaguely non-con at points. Trigger warning for _very_ dubious consent.

It starts out as a fever in the tips of his fingers. A drive to touch: textures and temperatures passing over the whorls of his callused fingerprints, hands clamoring to hold anything within reaching distance. It’s worse with Dean. Of course it is. From the minute his eldest son hit puberty, John has been restraining himself from touching more than he should, hands aching to linger on soft hips and toughening arms, the kind of boyish looks that demand to be called _pretty_. All whisper-long lashes and smudged freckles on a face that’s a living siren’s call.

Dean stands out like a goddamn beacon in the dark motels and dusty bars they frequent off near-forgotten highways. Long before the boy was even fully grown, John found himself intervening when that face attracted too much attention. Learned how to watch for the subtle flash of predatory interest, the desire to take his barely-teenage son and dirty every inch of whatever innocence was still intact.

Usually all it took was a hand on his son’s shoulder and a hard look at the man in question. Once in a while, John would have to get his point across in a back alley or with a cue stick shoved against a windpipe. Honestly, John was never sure how much of that aggression came from trying to protect his son or trying to protect what is _his._

+

By the time the heat in his fingertips grows to a molten gnawing in his stomach, it’s almost too late. He knows what this is. Four reports of spontaneous combustion had pointed them in the direction of this town two days ago, led them to an amateur warlock with a love-sick grudge and four once-pretty girls literally burned from the inside out, side-effect of a poorly-crafted love spell.

John tries to cool the heat spilling out his pores with a shower, the spray cold enough to make his teeth rattle and his skin pebble. Not cold enough, however, to curb the heat in his dick, slut-red bright and hard steel inside his hand.

He knows it won’t help, but he has to try anyway. He wraps callused fingers around himself, beating himself off two, three, four times until the shower wall is dripping with thick spunk, scent clinging to the tile and catching in the air. He steps out, his skin regaining its fiery glow and he turns on the sink faucet, angling his head down to gulp down streams of water. He can feel the dehydration creeping up on him, heat in his belly pushing out sweat faster than his body can recover.

With the warlock already ganked and disposed of, there’s nothing left to hunt. John knows he should call another hunter, find out if anyone’s got advice on reversing the mojo that’s sunk deep into his bones. But every second just pushes the lust up higher in his throat until it feels like he’s choking up red chunks of heart, chopped up like apple pieces, and his son’s due back any second. No time to do anything else, John carefully cuffs himself to his bed, both wrists strung up to the bedposts, maple headboard a cool line against his feverish back.

A few minutes after John tosses the key on the floor, Dean shoves the door open, food bags balanced in his arms, case of beer hooked inside his fingers. But as soon as he looks up, he pauses, hunter’s instincts on high-alert as he takes in his father spread across the bed, boxers slung low on his hips and chest bare because any amount of clothing feels like a wool coat in the Sahara.

“Bad date?” Dean asks, eyes darting around the room suspiciously. There’s a vague, forced smile at his lips when he raises an eyebrow, amends his question to: “Good date?”

The bags of greasy drive-through get placed on the table, ground beef and oil-crisped fries that John can smell from the bed. But stronger than the food is the scent of Dean — clean sweat, warm skin, earthy leather from a jacket that’s become a second skin by now. It makes no sense, but John swears he can smell his dick as well, musky boy-scent between his thighs that makes John swallow a few times, imagining the deep, salty taste.

Sex has always clung to his son in his unconscious movements: the swipe of his tongue across peach-ripe lips, the gentle curve of his hips and ass as he walks. As it is, his legs look perpetually ready to wrap around something, with a teasing notch between them that John’s long dreamed of stuffing with his mouth and fingers, turning that soft, inner-thigh skin into a crime scene of bruised fingerprints and teeth marks.

When Dean snaps his fingers in front of his face, waving a hand and giving John a bemused, “Dad? You okay?”, John realizes how far he’d let his mind wander. He clears his parched throat, trying not to let himself become distracted again.

“It’s the damn spell we tracked down here,” he says, voice low and scratchy. “That hack-job spellcaster must have got me just before we torched his ass. Gonna have to ride this thing out.”

Snorting, Dean shakes his head, jaw tightened irritably because he knows he’s being lied to. “The girls who ‘rode it out’ burned to death,” Dean states bluntly, pointing out what John already knows. “The only one who survived managed to fuck it out of her system, although she nearly broke her boy toy in the process. And not in a fun way. Guy was lucky to wake up with just a broken arm and a few sore ribs.”

“Which means I’m not putting some unsuspecting civilian at risk,” John snaps back. “Not when I’m a helluva lot stronger than some little pre-law co-ed.”

It feels like there’s an ocean roaring in his ears, his head swimming and dizzy and he _knows_ he needs to get Dean out of here soon. He’s seconds away from breaking his thumbs to get free, cracking through bone and blood just to get his hands on all that freckled skin he helped create. He tries to reason with himself, wonders if he could somehow just suck Dean off, if a mouth full of his son’s come would be enough for five minutes of peace.  
  
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not a civilian,” Dean says, stubborn and way too calm about this, and — oh. _Oh._ As soon as John realizes what Dean means, he shakes his head hard because in twenty-two years, John’s kept a perfect record. Never touched his son unless necessary, never allowed any of the filthy fantasies that ran through his sleep-deprived brain to surface in reality. Kept his distance because it was safer than the alternative. Nevermind the fact that two seconds ago John had been imagining doing exactly what Dean’s suggesting, he knows he can’t.

But then Dean takes the decision out of his hands.

Shedding his jacket, shoes, and pants, Dean slides onto the bed, right over John’s lap. Puts his hands on John’s shoulders to help balance, and John can feel them shaking despite how hard Dean’s trying to keep himself together.

“The hell you th—” John starts to growl out.

“I’m not gonna let you die,” Dean spits out before John can finish, and John chokes on the rest of his words when Dean rocks in his lap, bare ass rolling right over John’s unflagging erection. Scooting forward, Dean licks into John’s mouth because his son is nothing but stubborn, refuses to half-ass anything. He can taste the false bravado his son is putting on, knows Dean’s coping mechanisms more than anyone else. But John still can’t help the way his dick twitches when Dean’s lips part around John’s tongue, or the thrill that flashes up his spine when Dean pulls back with a smirks and tells John to “sit back and let me fuck you better.”

That wet, full mouth wraps around John’s cock, and it’s too good to be anything but practiced. With his throat open and teeth covered, Dean takes John deep, fingers sliding up to knead his balls, rubbing his thumb against spots that make John’s brain spark and his body jolt. The moment Dean swallows down John’s jizz, drops caught in the corners of his mouth, John finds just enough clarity to get angry. Because for all his caution, all the times he’s seen that look in men’s eyes, all the bloody noses and bruised ribs he’s left behind in alleys and in the back of bars, somehow it hadn’t been enough.

And sure, Dean could have gone off with some twink of his own to a hotel room where they sucked each other off, experimented, took it slow. But John knows better. He wishes he didn’t know how much Dean gets off on pain, on being thrown against walls or shoved on the floor. Dirt in his mouth and scrapes on his arms, and Dean fucking gets _off_ on it, and John has to pretend not to notice the flush in his cheeks, the heat in his crotch after some specter’s nearly choked the life out of him.

Somewhere along the line, his son turned into a masochist, and John knows it’s all his fault.

Of course, his dick barely registers the ejaculation. It fattens up almost immediately while Dean’s still sucking the come off, and his son grins wryly when he feels the swelling flesh pressing against the inside of his cheeks.

“Haven’t had this kind of refraction since before you enlisted, huh old man?” Dean asks cheekily, although John has a hard time taking him seriously with the head of his cock resting on Dean’s jizz-soaked chin.

Dean sucks him off three more times. And John would be lying if he said the sight of his son’s swollen, ruined lips didn’t fatten his cock up faster each time. After the second time, Dean stops swallowing, pulls back to jack John’s cock until it spits out come across Dean’s cheeks, down his chest, clumping in his hair. “Fucking geyser,” Dean complains after the latest one, and John’s not sure how he dick hasn’t been tapped out yet. Squinting down at the come dripping down his fingers, Dean runs his tongue over his lips in consideration before coming to a decision, leaning forward and slipping his hand behind him, and oh God, John knows exactly where Dean’s fingers are going.

After a brief wince, Dean wipes his hand across his chest, gathering up the still-wet spunk onto his fingers before slipping them behind him again. He starts rocking into his fingers, and John’s wrists pull at their restraints while he watches his son finger himself, wanting to slip his own fingers in, see how much Dean can take, feel the heat inside where his cock would fit so well.

When Dean crawls back into John’s lap, he lines himself up with one hand and steadily sinks down, eyes closing when he’s fully seated. For a few seconds, he doesn’t move, and John makes a few pained sounds, trying to rock up. But then Dean opens his eyes and start grinding back and forth, and John’s pretty sure his brain is stuck on midnight static, nothing but the feel of his son wrapped around his cock registering in his brain.

It’s the first orgasm that feels like relief, surging up like there might be an end in sight. Dean doesn’t move after, stays seated with John’s barely-softening cock still lodged inside.

The fingertip-heat is just starting to creep back when Dean straightens up. Eyes serious and steady, he asks, “Is it because I look like Mom?”

It’s not fair, not with the rush of chemicals in John’s brain, neurons slowed and distracted, and it takes him a few seconds to even process the question. Blinking and breathing, John feels his mouth move, asking, “What?”

“When you look at me like…” Dean trails off with a frown before going on. “When you look at me. Is that why?”

“No,” John grunts out, trying to tamp down the base, animalistic part of his brain that just wants to fuck and breed the warm body in his lap. Because Dean’s looking at him like _that_ , vulnerability peeking through the cracks in his eyes because the boy’s never learned how to properly hide his insecurities, not even now, his cockiness and bravado a paper-bag thin protection around his scar-tissue heart. With effort, John pulls up what shred of regret he can still feel to give his son an honest answer. Shakes his head, admits, “I wish that was it.”

Dean starts rocking again, successfully changing the subject when John’s eyes roll into the back of his head and he can’t remember why he ever tried to fight this. His son’s body clings tight to him, hard grip on John’s cock and arms circled around John’s chest as Dean brings himself up, head of John’s cock just barely still inside before Dean comes down again.

Distantly, John can feel Dean’s mouth against his neck, panting hard and hot into his skin. He wishes he could comfort Dean, hand cupped against the back of his neck like he used to do when the boy was five and John never considered for a moment that the monsters in Dean’s closet were anything other than imaginary. Didn’t yet know that some of those monsters would come in the shape of himself.

He comes harder than before, like the curse is responding to the deeper connection of him lodged inside his son, Dean screwing himself down tight. As much as he wants it to be enough, there’s still something missing, an edge that he can’t get while his hands are suspended above his head. But he tries to shake it off. Lets Dean ride him until his ass is leaking all over John’s lap, motel bedspread so ruined that it’s probably just easier to burn it than try to wash and sanitize this mess.

Eventually, Dean collapses to the side, his round, freckled ass covered in come, more seeping down his thighs. He turns his head to face John, groaning a little as he adjusts his body. “This isn’t working,” he says, and John agrees, although he’s distracted by the way Dean seems built to ruin. How nothing ugly seems to touch his son, not the crusting splashes of semen across his body, not the way his tired mouth warps against the bed covers or the way his muscles shake. All of it just makes John want to see more, thinks that even if he tried to tear his son apart, those pieces would still be beautiful. Freckled limbs strung out across the bed, red splashes of blood bright against the flush of his young cheeks, the pink of his lips.

Gingerly, Dean pushes himself up, crawls back towards John who doesn’t realize just what Dean’s up to until he reaches up and says, “We gotta jump-start this bastard’s curse. Gonna let you loose. Gonna let you have what you need.”

Dean’s always trusted him too damn much.

It’s a vulnerability that John’s never been able to train out of him. Right now, Dean’s ignoring everything John’s ever taught him about putting the hunt before anything else, slipping John’s cuffs off because he trusts his dad to make things right, has always thrown himself into everything with a recklessness that John both admires and despises. His son is going to kill himself one day, and John hates him for it. Thinks he’d spit on Dean’s grave if the stubborn son-of-a-bitch finds a way to go first.

The moment his hands are free, he grabs Dean by the arm, throws him down. His dick slots right up Dean’s ass with a wet slurp, and he can hear his son’s pained gasp, already sore from being overused.

“This what it was like?” John grits out harshly, fingers in Dean’s mouth, hot breath in his ear. “This what you were up to when I wasn’t looking? Scraping up your knees on asphalt alleys, bending over in dirty bathroom stalls? Whoring yourself out to anyone who looked like they’d use you up, throw you away.”

Dean doesn’t answer, just closes his eyes, muffled whimpers caught in his throat, and John twists his son’s head so he can bite across his jaw, punching down with a staccato beat of his hips.

He slams in hard as he comes, as deep as possible inside Dean who’s trying to squirm away, shaking. But John turns him over, wants Dean to face what’s happening, own up to the mistake of letting John free, defying his orders. His son fights it, fists the bedcovers until John pries his fingers open like a knife slipped inside a clam, flips Dean onto his back and spreads his legs wide.

“W-wait,” Dean says, sobbing hitch in his voice, and John has to pin his hands down.

“Stop fighting me,” John growls, and Dean finally just gives in, lies back, head tipped to the ceiling, a watery sheen to his eyes that John chooses to ignore.

He knows he should stop, thinks about it for a minute before he feels the curse creep in thicker, fog seeping through his head like fingers in his brain. It isn’t until John shoves too hard and Dean rolls off the bed that John even realizes an unexpected repercussion.

His son twists around to look up at him from on the floor, green eyes wide with panic, arms propped up behind him. His skin is covered in sweat and come from hours of fucking, and John still doesn’t want to stop. But it’s the hard-on between Dean’s legs that makes him pause. Consider just how deep that pain-to-pleasure line crosses inside Dean.

God, his son looks so pretty with his hard prick between his legs, light dusting of ginger against his thighs and framing his flushed cock. At twenty-two, Dean hasn’t lost his baby-face yet, all slim muscles and trim waist, looking for all the world like the worst kind of jailbait.

When John kneels down and wraps his hand around that pink-tipped temptation, Dean jolts, tries to back away. But John surrounds his son, holding him in place while his fingers slide through the precome leaking from the slit.

As he leans down to wrap his mouth around Dean’s cock, there’s a hard tug on the side of his head, Dean’s hands gripping tight as Dean keep quietly repeating, “Dad, no no no.” But his cock stays hard, and Dean chokes in air when he comes, chest heaving as John licks up the white streaks spilled up Dean’s stomach.

There’s something satisfying about watching Dean unravel, the way Dean can’t help throwing himself all into it, eyes blinking hard like he’s surprised by how good he can feel, lips parted and mumbling nonsense as he struggles to breathe.

The taste of his son’s release tugs John into a frenzy, dizzy and stupid with want, like a shark catching a trail of ocean-washed blood. He hauls Dean up, shoves him back on the bed. Hands wrapped around his son’s chest, John lies down behind him, presses his cock inside, hands groping down until he coaxes Dean’s dick to stiffen again while John mouths bruises into his neck.

The blood-fever sinks into his stomach, cracks John open from the inside, makes him spill every fantasy and thought he’s ever had about his son right in his ear while Dean squirms and keeps telling John to _shut up, shut up, Dad, you don’t know what you’re saying._

But as soon as John’s fingers tunnel around Dean’s cock, Dean chokes on his words. Starts rocking his hips back, impaling himself deeper.

“Remember that case we worked with Pastor Jim six years back?” John slurs into Dean’s neck between orgasms when he’s clear enough to form whole sentences. “When you had to dress up as an altar boy, so pretty that I almost stopped the case right there, knew you’d probably single-handedly filled up all the confessionals that week with pious Christians who couldn’t look at you without thinking of sinning. Swear I almost dragged you into Pastor Jim’s office more’n a few times, tested my willpower so hard.”

One hand gropes up, finds the nub of his son’s nipples and pinches it, hard, until Dean curls his body into a ‘U’, groaning as his cock spits long ropes into John’s hand.

It takes another half dozen orgasms until the fever finally breaks, sweat dripping down John’s hairline, under his arms and down his chest. Dean’s in the same condition, although John can’t help licking all that wet salt off his son’s body, alternating between a flat tongue and biting teeth, loving how Dean’s cock responds to the pricks of pain.

Once the spell is satisfied, John crashes hard, body sore and tired, brain oversaturated with pleasure chemicals that make him feel dopey and drugged. The blackout is a welcome relief, and he barely registers the moment his dick slips free from his son, thinks he hears a soft whimper before everything fades to black.

+

In the morning, John takes Dean to a clinic. No doubt his scars and new bruises will raise more than a few eyebrows, but they checked in under a fake name and John just needs to know that his son is okay. Because Dean sure as hell isn’t offering up that information, and John can’t bring himself to touch his son, much less inspect Dean for lasting damage from the night before.

They don’t talk in the car and Dean won’t meet his eyes. His son had tried to put up a fight about going, mumbled that he was fine, this was fucking stupid and he’s been through worse than this a thousand times. But John had ignored him, packed the car and opened the side door, and Dean had glared at the ground before climbing inside.

By the time Dean finishes his check-up, John knows what he has to do. He can’t work with his son. Not when something else can come along, twist his already fucked-up desires, make him hurt his son. But he also knows Dean would fall apart right now if he just disappeared.

There’s a flush high on Dean’s cheeks when he comes out, jaw set, lips pressed together. John hates that he knows how far that flush can spread, hot skin reaching down his chest, freckles standing out against the pink tinge. His brain flashes back briefly to the way Dean looked panting against the bedcovers, eyes squeezing tight as John bit up his stomach. It twists John’s insides thinking about it. But he still wants more.

He knows he’s fucked.

His fantasies/memories come to an abrupt halt when Dean shoves the paperwork into his hand, hurries out of the building and slides into the car. Shoulders hunched down, hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie. Looking younger than he really is, and much younger than he pretends to be.

Their relationship has never been stable or healthy. John’s never going to win a Father of the Year Award, he knows this. Not when he’s lusting after one son while chasing away the other, worried and jealous of the codependence he forced on them. He’s seen the way his youngest looks at his oldest, although he can’t say he blames him. He just hopes Sam has more willpower than John seems to possess.

John’s spent the better part of his sons’ lives tracking down monsters. Sometimes he thinks it’s because he’s trying to convince himself he’s not one of them.

Sometimes he knows better.


End file.
